Those were awful thoughts.
Douglas glanced at his comrades, at his friends. They were slightly injured, but nothing too bad. Nothing fatal. He asked the one question that was on his mind: “Why would they leave you alive?” They had to suspect that if they managed to take Frost and bring her to Stentar, they would try going after her.
“I don’t know,” Noel muttered. “But I plan on finding out. We find Frost, get the Jewel, and then I say it’s payback time.”
Soon enough, Blue led them to a tall staircase. They climbed up the stone steps, needing to take quite a few breaks on the way up. They eventually found an open stone door once the steps were behind them, and Douglas, being the least injured of the three men, stepped inside first.
This room was what they were looking for. This room had to have had the Jewel inside it—but the door was open, meaning someone else got here, first.
The men spread out, while Blue sniffed the ground. Noel knelt before a knocked over chest of silver, his gloved fingers brushing the stone floor. “There’s blood here,” he whispered. “Fresh, too.”
Douglas felt his heart crack a little. If there was blood, odds were it was Frost’s. If she fought the soldiers, there would be iced over corpses nearby, not blood.
“They have her, and I bet they have the Jewel as well,” Noel spoke under his breath, slowly getting to his feet. “We need to go after them.”
“I should go. You two are injured,” Douglas pointed out. His arm had long since healed from the wolf attack; he was raring to go. His two friends, on the other hand, were moving a bit sluggish.
Noel glared. “Bullshit. You aren’t going anywhere without us.”
Nodding once, Hale said, “We save her together. She is ours, so we will fight for her together, no matter what happens.” He offered his hand towards them.
Noel could apparently agree to that, for he set his own hand on top of Hale’s. “No matter what happens.” They both looked to Douglas, who still personally thought it was foolish for two injured men to traverse Wysteria in search of their love.
Alas, he relented. He had to.
“No matter what happens,” Douglas repeated, placing his hand on top of theirs. “Let’s go. Blue, do you smell anyone else? Can you help us find her?”
Blue sauntered over to the bloodstain, dropping his nose over it and breathing in deeply. His white tail started to wag, and with a yelp of a bark, they were on their way once again. Blue led them down the tower’s staircase.
“I have to say,” Noel muttered, “going down is a lot easier than coming up.”
The wolf trailed the scent right out of the castle, across the bridge full of frozen people. Douglas did his best not to stare at them as they hurried by, knowing there were children among them. An entire kingdom, lost because a child was given magic, magic she shouldn’t even have. Did he blame her for it? No, even if she’d wished for everything to stop. He couldn’t imagine what Frost felt like growing up, the added responsibility of being the eldest princess and having magic no one knew how to deal with.
They would get her back. They had to.
Blue took them around the end of the bridge, right on top of the lake. Douglas could see the footprints in the snow now; there were at least a dozen of them. A small company. Their footprints were being swept away and covered by the snowy wind, but as long as Blue had the scent, they’d be fine. They would find her, and make those sons of bitches pay.
If they hurt her…if they got to her too late…
Douglas’s chest growled, almost like he was an animal himself. He would gladly be an animal, if it meant he got to protect Frost. He would be anything he had to be to save that woman.
Frost, he willed, we’re coming.
Chapter Twenty
Frost’s eyes felt like stone, but they opened nonetheless. They opened to find a tent around her. She lay on a bed, on top of the sheets, and as she tried to move, to get up, an aching, jabbing pain stabbed her in the gut. Her eyes fell to her stomach, finding that she’d been patched up, the arrow no longer inside her.
By the kingdoms, she’d never been in so much pain.
She slowly propped herself up, her elbows nearly giving out due to the agony rushing through her body, but she managed to sit up and swing her legs over the bed. Her eyes scanned the small tent. There were no other decorations, nothing else around her to give her any hints about where she was or who had shot her. Clearly, it hadn’t been Hale. That much she knew.
That…that was about all she knew.
Frost was about to stand and leave the tent when someone ducked inside. It was a man who wore the warm, bronze-tinted armor of Fenburn, a general, based on the badges on his chest. He had a sword on his hip, though his fingers did not rest on the hilt. He wore a helmet, blocking out most of his features.
“You’re awake,” he said, and she recognized his voice instantly. The same man who’d scolded the archer for shooting her. “Good. I’m to bring you to him.” He didn’t sound happy about it, and the way he held himself around her—stiffly and almost awkwardly—made her hesitant.
Plus, there was the whole arrow-in-the-gut thing she still hurt from.
“Who?” Frost asked, though deep down she suspected she already knew. A Fenburn general. Who else would he be ordered to bring her to? Who else could order a general around? The one man she really did not wish to see.
“King Stentar,” the man replied, touching his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry, but we mustn’t dally. I’ll help you all I can.” He offered her his arm, and even though she did not want to, she grabbed it, using his body to help pull her up and off the bed.
Pain surged through her, nearly causing her to double over. She held herself as straight as she could, though she could not hide the wince from forming on her face.
The general noticed. “I’m sorry about that.” He helped her to the tent’s flap, taking small steps for her. He was a solid, strong man, and he clearly didn’t care that she leaned on him as they walked.
“Don’t be,” she muttered, sounding very much like the princess she was. “I would’ve killed you and your men if I would’ve known who you were.” She sounded much more confident than she truly was, for even now, she could not feel the magic tickling her fingertips. Even now she felt weak, injury aside.
“Fair enough,” he spoke, leading her outside the tent. The cool air of Wysteria met her, and with a quick glance around, she realized they were camping out on the frozen lake, not too far from the castle itself, although it looked like they were behind the castle, which would be why they were not seen as Frost and the men had crossed the bridge.
Half a dozen tents, the snow on the ice shoveled aside. Numerous soldiers, at least three dozen, stood around, most of them gawking at her. She had no idea which one shot her, and she didn’t care. This was the end, she knew it. There was no point in wasting time trying to deny it.
The general brought her to the largest tent, the tent with Fenburn’s crest on it. A wolf, go figure, surrounded by browns and oranges. She heaved a breath, only hurting herself in the process, as the general pushed them inside the tent and immediately released her, causing her to sway, as he dropped to his knees to kneel to his king.
A harsh voice commanded, “Leave us, General.”
The general slowly stood, his eyes darting to hers beneath his helmet, holding her stare for only a moment before he exited the tent, leaving her alone with a king whom Frost had heard nothing but terrible things about. It was almost as if he felt bad for leaving her alone with him, but he could do nothing about it.
Oh, well. She didn’t need pity.
She did need to sit down, though. Her stomach felt horrible, like a fire, so hot and painful, seared at her abdomen. Sweat lined her brow, and Frost did her best to hold it in as she met the wrinkled eyes of Fenburn’s king.
Stentar was an old man. Older than her father was when she cast the spell of this eternal winter. His tan skin was sagging in places, wrinkles aroun
d his eyes, and she suspected, everywhere else. He wore a long-sleeved coat and gloves; the only bit of his person showing was his head, which held thinning, greying hair. A rust-colored crown sat atop his head, no jewels or anything on its metal.
His coat was beyond furry, definitely a coat fit for a king. Why in all of Wysteria, was Stentar here in the flesh, Frost couldn’t say. Maybe he grew tired of waiting for his scouts to find the Jewel, or her. Maybe he wanted to see it for himself.
“Princess Eliora,” Stentar spoke, tilting his head to the table behind him. “Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss, you and I.” He watched, waiting for her to make the first move, knowing he was fully in control here.
Frost hated him, and strongly loathed the use of her royal name. She had not been Eliora for a long time. Still, what could she do? She held in her grimacing, swallowing down the pain as she moved to the table, pulling out the chair and sitting in it slowly. Ever so slowly. Jolts of agony seared her nerves, and she bit her lower lip to keep herself from crying out as Stentar measuredly went to sit across from her.
No food on the table. No maps. Only wood, and, after a deliberate movement from him, Stentar’s gloved fists.
“It seems the snow has been treating you well,” Stentar remarked, studying her, lingering a bit too long in places he shouldn’t. Namely, her mouth and her chest. “You’ve grown to be a beautiful woman, bandage aside.”
Was she supposed to thank him? She would not. Frost did say, “And you’ve grown into an old man. I’m surprised you’re even still alive.” She’d never before seen him, so she had nothing to compare his current facial features to. Still, it was probably best not to insult the crazy king who kept sending his own soldiers to their deaths, all for the Jewel, which wasn’t even there.
Stentar smirked. It was an ugly expression that crossed his face, and he held it there as he said, “Spunk. Interesting. I would’ve assumed you’d grown quiet and pensive, after spending so much time alone. Ah, but you haven’t been alone lately, have you? What would your mother and father think, knowing what you’ve done?”
How he knew about the others, Frost didn’t know. Did he send scouts to track them? Had they watched her this entire time, waiting for her to reach the castle? It was not something she wanted to think about, mostly because she hoped they were still alive and breathing, left and forgotten in the castle. If they were dead…if there was nothing left for her to live for, what was the point of this?
“My parents don’t think anything, because they’re dead,” Frost said, ignoring the jabbing pain in her abdomen. It was hard to sit upright, harder to put on a brave face toward the man opposite her.
Stentar chuckled. “Charming. I like you, Eliora. I like you better than I thought I would, which makes this easier.”
“Makes what easier?”
“I have been king for many years, and no one until now has been worthy of me. You are a princess of magic.” Stentar leaned forward, and even though the table was four feet long, it still wasn’t enough space between them. “Let us cut to the chase. You have no one. No home, no kingdom. Nothing. You’ve given yourself to commoners, to mercenaries. You need me, because you have no one else. Quite fortuitous for me, since I am in need of you as well.”
The words her sister had said rang in her mind, and a bad taste rose in Frost’s mouth. She wanted to vomit, both because of the pain in her side, and also because of what she knew Stentar was going to say.
“I’ve never taken a wife, but you…I would have you as my wife. Our children would be deadly and beautiful, and we would unite Fenburn and Wysteria under one flag.” He said nothing about taking over Springvale, but she knew war would only follow his ridiculous and asinine plan.
Frost let out a low laugh. “I would never be your wife, or your queen, or your broodmare.” She glared at him, watching as his expression changed.
No longer smiling, no longer amiable, Stentar whispered, “Do not overestimate your importance here. I need Wysteria, but I do not need a wife. I can find any other whore to spread her legs for me and pop out a child. You are only in this equation because you have to be, but how exactly you’re in the equation rests on you. What you do with this knowledge is, of course, up to you.”
“You’re right,” Frost said. “All you need in order for the other kingdoms to acknowledge your rightful rule over Wysteria is the Jewel. Go into the castle and search for it. It’s not there.” Her voice dripped venom, pure hatred. This man…in all her life, she didn’t think she’d ever felt such animosity toward someone.
Then her hatred faltered, mostly because the grin that spread across Stentar’s face made her doubt herself. Had they already gotten it? Was this for her, to see if she would marry him, and if she refused, they’d kill her?
“My dear Eliora,” Stentar flashed his yellowed teeth at her, “you seem to be unaware of something. When I found out about the Jewel, I sent a scout here and there to the castle, thinking you were inside it, living there. What I did not expect was for you to have your own home in the wilderness. When I discovered that my scouts were dying, I changed tactics, I waited. It was a gamble, but it paid off.” He spread his hands, gesturing to her. “Here you are.”
Her brows came together. “But I thought you said—”
Stentar interrupted her easily, a haughty king in every right, “Your parents have told you nothing, I presume.”
“I don’t…”
“I don’t need your body—not all of it. The only part I need of you is your heart. Eliora, you are the Jewel of Wysteria.”
The words fell upon her ears, feeling wrong. It was wrong. It couldn’t be right. She couldn’t be the Jewel—she was a living, breathing person. A living, breathing person with magic, but still a person. She was not an object, not a thing.
And then, all her dreams, all her visions, everything came crashing down upon her at once. The mirrors in her dreams, her changing reflection. Her parents talking to the white-haired witch, and the witch warning them it would not last forever.
Frost gripped the edge of the table, her mind thrown back into that same vision.
The white-haired witch stood outside a bedchamber, wearing rags and looking wholly out of place in the Wysterian castle. She stood less than two feet from Frost’s father, the king. “She will not make it another fortnight. If you want your daughter to live, it is the only way. The heartbeat must come from somewhere. Magic does not raise the dead, or keep the living alive, no good magic, at least.”
“What do you need from me?” the King asked, his auburn brows coming together.
“In order to save your daughter’s life, I will need what this kingdom treasures most, and I warn you, it will not last forever.”
Closing his eyes, the king whispered, “How long?”
The witch shook her head. “I cannot say. I have never done this before. It will be a learning experience for all of us.”
It was not what he wanted to hear, but he nodded anyway. They’d tried for ages to have a child, and now that they had one, they were not willing to give her up so easily. So the King did what any loving father would do: he went into the vault and retrieved the Jewel of Wysteria, his kingdom’s chosen treasure, the one remnant of magic the castle held.
An icy stone, brilliant and blue in hue, a coldness always seeping from it.
The king brought the Jewel to the witch, who nodded appreciatively. “Good.” The witch did what witches often do. A spell was all it took. An ancient spell that mankind had long forgotten. The Jewel infused with the failing heart of the baby, strengthening it, helping to keep the child alive. Helping to keep Frost alive.
Her yellow hair turned white, her skin paled. The next time Frost opened her eyes, they were the same color as the Jewel, a constant reminder of the exchange her parents had made.
Frost held in a gasp. Stentar was right. She was the Jewel. The Jewel was inside of her, keeping her alive, but just as the white-haired witch had said, it was failing. It was failing, j
ust as it was meant to do. What stone, magical or not, could keep someone alive for so many years? Truly, it was a miracle she’d lasted so long…
Or was it?
If her parents had let her die when she was a baby, the kingdom would still be prosperous. They would’ve had Amara. They could’ve been one happy family.
“Ah,” Stentar broke into her thoughts, “I see you understand it now.” He got to his feet, stretching out his fingers. The leather covering them tightened, and Frost was too stunned at the revelation to realize he was now standing behind her, his hands gripping her thin shoulders. “So you see, I don’t need you, Eliora. I only need what’s inside of you. It is up to you whether or not you choose life. I’m more than ready to order my general back in here and have him cut out your heart.”
Cutting out her heart? Would that finally end this?
“As tempting as it is,” Eliora spoke, taking on a tone she knew was not regal, choosing words she knew a royal would never speak, “I think I’m going to have to decline, Stentar. Oh, and fuck you—”
The hands on her shoulders grabbed the back of her head, slamming it down to the table in front of her. Blood oozed from her nose, and a new wave of pain shot through her from the impact. Couple that pain with the pain she had in her stomach, and she wasn’t doing too well.
“You dare speak to me like that?” Stentar hissed, leaning down until his lips brushed her ear. His breath smelled, and she gagged. “Maybe I’ll wait to call the general in. Maybe I’ll make you regret those words first—” His threat, while unsaid, rattled her to her core.
Was she afraid of him, in that moment? No, even though she knew she should be. Frost wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling, but it was the very opposite of fear.
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